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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842029">Loving You From Beyond Your Grave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynope/pseuds/androgynope'>androgynope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And this might be his only way of telling him, Anxiety, Depression, Emetophobia, Feral Eddie, Fix-It, Graphic Description, IT - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, It doesnt have to make total sense there was a space clown, M/M, Maturin feels bad for him, Neibolt AU, Neibolt Losers - Freeform, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, Only a sort of fix-it, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reddie, Richie is in love with a dead man, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Visions, apparitions - Freeform, learning to love, mild body horror, pennywise - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:27:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynope/pseuds/androgynope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie Kaspbrak lived his adult life feeling alone and lost in a world that felt both too big and too small all at once. The world became small again when he died in a cistern surrounded by friends he'd forgotten but who he knew loved him. Eddie Kaspbrack died with a smile on his face, as the man who held him cried against his skin. </p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak died. Richie Tozier wished he'd died with him. He's been trying to ever since, spending his days lost in New York, and his nights lost at the end of a bottle. But there's something keeping a hold of him, keeping him from releasing his grip on life. </p><p>There was a monstorous version of the boy he loved in the house where they found the clown all those years ago, a version of Eddie that had always quietly haunted Richie in the dark corners of his mind, filling him with fear then and throughout his life. But now that monster filled him with hope, and perhaps he could be the only thing that could keep Richie's heart beating.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Neibolt Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ache</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi and welcome to my first Reddie fic!</p><p>I've been mulling on this idea for around a year and i finally got some motivation so here we are! I love Neibolt AU's but there isn't much of a market where they cross into the Loser's world (though if you haven't read Cut The Strings on Twitter, I really recommend it). Also, my brain is mush and I have never proofread anything I have ever written, so :)</p><p>Anyway, if my heart hurts over this yours will too cause i'm a cruel little man who desires to share their pain, so, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie Kaspbrak died in a cistern beneath his hometown, surrounded by five of his dearest friends that he had ceased to remember until three days prior, and one man who wanted to die right there alongside him. He was held as he died, by someone he wished he’d never forgotten and hoped would never forget him, as his blood leaked from his skin and splattered that if his long lost best friend. He died knowing he was loved by people he had known both all his life and not at all, and despite the pain he was in, despite knowing this was the end of the line for him, the smile on his face remained as the last breath of life slipped from his lungs.</p><p> </p><p>His funeral was not well attended, despite how his widow sobbed at his graveside, no longer having a person she could control under the guise of worry and care. Six strangers to her attended the service. Five stood together, silently grasping hands, palms aching against each other. Behind them, far enough away that he could escape, but not so far as to be seen as anything but a mourner, stood an unkept man, who for the first time in his life had not a single word to say. Eddie Kaspbrak was buried in his hometown of Derry, by a priest who had never met him, and to an audience of family who cared for the wrong reasons, strangers who cared for the right ones, and a heartbroken man who arrived and left alone. A man who lost touch with his friends all over again after feeling the man he’d unknowingly pined over his entire life slip from this world in his arms, and finally experiencing what true, unending agony was.</p><p> </p><p>Richie Tozier arrived in Derry again for the first time in twenty-seven years alone, and left three days later alone again, only that his mind had been stuffed to the brim with memories of a life long before and feelings so strong that he couldn’t realise he’d forgotten them at all. He had spent the guts of three decades building a career, from shock-jock radio host to stand-up comedian who won awards despite his material being lacklustre at best, and yet had not formed one meaningful relationship. He'd, of course, had his share of one-night stands and bad dates, but there was always a voice in the back of his head, always whispering that this person was not the one he’d been missing. So, nothing lasted, no relationships, no friendships, not even a call to his parents other than for their birthdays and Hannukah. The only person he even kept in touch with on a regular basis was his manager, and even his calls had been ringing out more often than not in recent months. Nobody could get in touch with Richie Tozier after he’d suddenly gone home ten months ago, despite numerous attempts. Richie had left a single note to his manager after several angry voicemails had been left, a small post-it left on the door of his apartment which simply read, ‘Fuck off’. And thus, ended the career of Richie Tozier.</p><p> </p><p>Men who don’t want to be seen simply won’t be. Men can hide in plain sight if they hide behind themselves, keeping their heads down and voices hushed. Richie Tozier ended up in New York City, spending days walking the streets he imagined Eddie would have, watching the sky change as hours passed, as rain turned to sun and sun turned to snow. As Richie stood in front of the hulking building where he’d discovered Eddie had worked not even a year beforehand, he wished he could crush it between his fingers and let the glass slice into his skin, until the pain in his chest was only a whisper in comparison. But he was small, at least compared to the building, and the worst he could do was allow the falling snow to settle on his exposed hands and let the cold burn through to his bones. He could try to forget, lose himself in thick glass bottles filled with liquids that made his eyes burn and inhale smoke until his lungs mistook it for air, but he always ended up back here. Every day, for the last nine months, he’d stand here and just stare through the long windows. He’d imagine Eddie storming up and down the office floor, unable to stay still as he swore at someone through the phone. He would imagine his desk was covered in bottles of herbal remedies, vitamins, and pain relievers for ever persistent headaches from stress. He would imagine that Eddie was always there on time, and left each day at six or seven, to battle the busy city streets on his way back to a woman who so grossly resembled his mother that Richie would have gone mad had he known before. He always came here, never anywhere else. Never to the house, which felt poisoned by that woman’s presence. Eddie hadn’t spoken much about her, though he didn’t have much time to do so, but the funeral was enough to convince Richie that Myra Kaspbrak was nothing more than the universe’s cruel way of keeping Eddie from the world, and in a selfish way, from Richie himself.</p><p>This was the one place that felt like it could have been Eddie’s, a place where a high-strung semi-asshole could have taken his frustrations out on incompetent callers and use his brain to do something he actually cared about. It felt like part of Eddie’s soul was nestled here, in this cold, grey building that dwarfed Richie in size, and this was what kept drawing him back there. Every day. He’d seen that building in all weathers, in spring rain and summer heat. Now, as December approached and snow had begun to cover the streets like a thick blanket, Richie felt as though those pieces of Eddie were starting to fade. He would watch employees file in everyday, and in them he saw nothing of Eddie. Eddie’s soul had lingered there last May, but now it was like the walls no longer recalled how Eddie had passed them each morning and thrown pens at them every time he was frustrated by the world. As Richie stared up at it now, all he saw was his own, sad reflection, and he knew that there was nothing left here for him to find. Eddie was gone from here, from every physical place that inhabited the Earth, which meant there was nowhere for him to go but Richie’s thoughts, where his voice bounced off bone walls and made his ears ring.</p><p>“Those things will give you cancer,” Richie would hear softly every time he sparked up a cigarette between his lips, “You do realise that, right? You’ll die, Richie. You cannot smoke that shit and expect to be fine. You’ll get fucking <em>cancer</em>.”</p><p>Eddie was always berating him like that, hissing about the ways he was damaging his body with illicit substances, a shitty diet of fast food, and his complete lack of sleep or proper exercise. It made Richie smile every time.</p><p>“Good”, he would think to himself every time the ‘Eddie’ in his head would tell him that he was slowly killing himself.</p><p>“Maybe I’ll seen you soon then”, he’d think, as he took another deep inhale, another long drink, another bite, and hoped each time that would be the thing to make his heart stop in his tracks. Eddie would have hated that; all the Losers would have if they knew. Richie didn’t care. The adrenaline rush of knowing any breath could be his last as he ran down a road towards self-destruction was the only thing that felt good anymore, and he was prepared to chase that feeling until he was six feet under and the worms had feasted on the flesh surrounding his bones, leaving them bleached. Part of him wondered why he hadn’t simply ended it. Why he hadn’t swallowed a handful of pills or taken a gun to his head. He figured it was because Eddie’s voice was still so strong in his head, that it almost felt like he was stood there, hissing into Richie’s ear about what an idiot he was and how he was throwing his life away. That felt good. That felt amazing, like he could turn and capture Eddie in his arms, call him a barrage of names and pretend like his happiness was just that of a man finding his best friend, and not of a man in love. So, he kept going, kept waking up every morning and ending up in front of that building. But now, he felt no connection to it, no desire to venture over and imagine watching Eddie arrive for work. As the snow turned his cheeks red, and made him shiver there, he realised this city had nothing left to offer him, and suddenly the taste of death was heavy and sweet on his tongue, like the first spring spoon of honey.</p><p>He could end it now, leave the world behind and try to find Eddie in another. He knew the Loser’s would have tried to stop this, would have gotten him to go to therapy and see them regularly, which was why he’d made sure to sever contact. He loved them, and that was the problem, because he knew they loved him too. But they could never be Eddie, and that was the only person he felt could fix how empty he felt inside. Turning on his heel, Richie walked away from the office building with his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets. His breaths left him in rivulets of smoke, spilling from his nostrils into the icy air, becoming tiny roads to nowhere as they left his head. At this time of the day, the streets were busy with residents and tourists alike, either strolling to watch the world, or storming down the streets to try seek some peace in a tiny apartment where rent was higher than the buildings that neighboured them. Crowds engulfed Richie, chewing him up and spitting him out alone, feeling filthy from the fumes and overwhelmed by the noise. Richie would usually block out the noise around him by being the loudest thing there, it was how he’d always battled that feeling of being overrun or weak in comparison to his surroundings, but the only words he spoke nowadays were restaurant orders or grumbles to himself regarding his own behaviour. He often laughed, at least when he was inebriated and everything around him appeared to be melting down into a puddle of black gunk. Sometimes when this happened, he’d see a vision of Eddie, as if he’d crawled from the sewer to tell Richie to stop being an idiot and move on. It always made Richie laugh, his large hands reaching out to try and touch Eddie only for him to constantly evade his grip.</p><p>“You need to forget me”, Eddie would say softly, and Richie never realised that he was crying even as hot tears traced out paths on his roughened skin, leaving it damp and cold to the touch when he eventually would raise a hand to his own cheek. It seemed like a stupid thing to suggest, how on earth could Richie ever forget Eddie? Sure, he had for twenty-seven years but that was through no fault of his own. His mind had been sliced up and put back together by a killer clown from outer space, so he could hardly be to blame. So how could he consciously choose to forget? Even when he had, something was always there, an ache in his chest every time he’d see lanky brunet men arguing with the passion of an angered bull. He had assumed it was simply to do with what he deemed his own deviant sexuality, but recent events had led him to realise those feelings had other roots.</p><p>“Why would I want to forget my best friend?”, Richie would always reply to the apparition, his words tasting like lies. He had forgotten his best friends, had left the Losers out to pasture what felt like forever ago by choice, and instead focused everything he had on finding the remnants of Eddie’s life. Richie had never spoken it aloud, had barely even admitted it to himself that this desire to be close to Eddie now was not just some platonic bond that required strengthening. All his life, he had been hopeless, and completely in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, even when he couldn’t remember his name. He had always wanted Eddie; from the moment they’d met as children. That wanting went from a need to make Eddie laugh as he put worms on his own face and declared himself ‘King of the Worms’, to comforting Eddie as he realised his mom was the only thing making him sick and trying to help him cope with that pressure, to finally realising that the reason he was staring at Eddie’s mouth all the time wasn’t because eye contact was hard (which it was, but that was just coincidental), but because being seventeen and wanting to kiss your best friend until neither of you could breathe was probably a bad idea and should be retained to late night fantasies kept between the walls of your bedroom. Loving Eddie had been something that Richie had always known since the second he saw Eddie stood behind his mom in the drugstore, big brown doe eyes looking around in fear until they met Richie’s behind thick glass lenses, and something clicked for both of them. Loving Eddie had never been a choice, it had been something Richie knew was always going to be a part of his life, but when the love of your life dies in your arms it suddenly becomes difficult to stay optimistic about the fact that you can pretend to just be a friend and watch the man you love learn to love someone else because he was never going to feel the same way. Somehow, knowing Eddie would never live to be loved by someone else was worse than Richie imagining Eddie falling for someone who was not him.</p><p>So, he laughed at the idea of forgetting Eddie, because at least Richie could love him if he wasn’t here to feel it. At least Richie could fantasise about late night kisses and arms curling around his waist from behind, about Eddie standing on his tiptoes to whisper in his ear and say it back. Those simple few words that could have made Richie realise that loving Eddie was never wrong or disgusting, that loving and being loved by Eddie was the most beautiful thing in the world. But Eddie was dead, and Richie still felt disgusted by himself. Disgusted that he held Eddie in his arms in that cistern and didn’t tell him the truth, that even though Eddie might of thought he was a filthy pervert at least he would have known that one person in the world saw him as the most beautiful person to ever exist. Eddie died not knowing how incredibly loved he was, and Richie could never forgive himself for that being the first time he’d ever kept his mouth shut. Maybe if he could find Eddie in another world, another life, he could tell him. Maybe that Eddie wouldn’t still rant about getting AIDS off telephone poles or from dirty glasses in bars. Maybe that Eddie would touch his arm and tell Richie he knew, and that he felt it too. Maybe that Eddie could be his. That was motivation enough to end up back in his tiny studio, downing copious amounts of alcohol and hoping that tonight he would reach his final limit. He hoped he would reach that state where he would see a blurry image of Eddie in front of him, telling him he was stupid. Maybe that was Eddie’s way of telling Richie he loved him too, at least Richie hoped so. He’d get the chance to say goodbye if Eddie did make his usual appearance, and that was enough to convince him to lengthen this out. Then he’d swallow a concoction of pills he’d collected from various drug stores that he’d left on his coffee table, with a mouthful of whatever liquor was closest to his clumsy hands and say a prayer that he ended up wherever Eddie had. He’d let the world fade around him, and hope the smell of him made a neighbour investigate and find his heavy body before the rats in the building sought him out.</p><p>That was not what occurred.</p><p>Eddie did show up. He didn’t berate Richie like usual, didn’t stay out of his reach. Instead, Richie felt hands lift his head from where it hung drunkenly, and his half-lidded eyes met Eddies, though they were grey instead of their usual warm brown.</p><p>“You’re never going to stop until it’s too late, are you?”, Eddie asked in a voice that seemed to overlap with itself, as though it wasn’t his own at all, “You’re never going to stop trying to find him, are you?”</p><p>Richie didn’t speak, hell, he probably couldn’t have if he tried judging by the amount of alcohol coursing through his veins. So, he just smiled, and shook his heavy head side to side, a silent affirmation that he would always try and find Eddie, that he couldn’t give up on him now or ever. Eddie (who wasn’t quite Eddie) sighed, and as their eyes met again, they turned black, like deep swirling pools of blood. It made Richie’s breathing pause, hairs standing up on the back of his neck as black bile slowly began to leak out of Eddie’s mouth, dripping onto the floor, Richie’s knees, and seeming to burn through the fabric.</p><p>“Go back,” Eddie whispered, voice surprisingly steady despite the bile that continued to spill from his lips, and despite the terrifying image it presented, Richie stayed, listening and watching as Eddie seemed to morph more into a creepy version of the man he missed so desperately. His skin was pale, with dark veins slightly visible through it as though his skin was paper thin. Those dark eyes stayed locked with Richie’s, deeply unsettling yet so comforting all at once. Richie didn’t understand, and yet he did, because memories returned and now, he could see that Eddie. Back in the house, that cursed house, where they’d finally decided to confront the clown in hopes it would leave them alone. There had been an Eddie in that house. An Eddie that existed purely to fill Richie with fear. An Eddie used as bait to draw Richie close before showing him how ill the imitation was. Richie immediately saw that Eddie as a version that existed because of his own deviancy, an Eddie he had infected by loving him in a way the world told him was wrong. They said boys who loved other boys got sick and died, so to see Eddie seizing and spitting up black liquid seemed like a way to tell Richie that if he ever said a word, if he ever touched the other boys for a second too long, they would know and it would hurt Eddie. He saw a sick Eddie and it filled him up with the worst kind of fear that it had kept him from saying a word all his life, and yet now, that same Eddie was back in his head, and he was the most beautiful thing Richie had ever seen. He was still in the house.</p><p>“Go back,” Eddie repeated, splatters of black spit hitting Richie’s left glasses lens, his cheek, leaving heat behind.</p><p>“I’ll go,” he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks, “I’ll find you. I’ll find you, Eds. I’ll save you this time.” His hands moved to try and clasp Eddies, but he was gone, and Richie was alone. Alone in the dark, quiet apartment, suddenly a lot more sober than he ought to have been. Most would have shaken off the experience as something they’d imagined, but having recalled that terrifying childhood memory, Richie knew he couldn’t take that chance. He had to go back. He had to go back to that house and find Eddie. He’d rescue him, save his life this time. He would finally know peace, once he got Eddie out of there and brought him home. The Loser’s would be so happy, knowing that Eddie was okay, and Richie had gone back for him. He would have Eddie back, and surely it would actually be him? That, thing, that imitated him when they were children hadn’t been Eddie, just a cruel way to hurt Richie, but maybe now it would be different. Maybe Eddie’s soul would have found a home in that cheap puppet imitation of himself, and Richie would be able to help him find himself again.</p><p>Eddie was alive, in a way, and Richie was prepared to find him, to return to the place where his nightmares had begun and try to find his dreams. There were two things Richie Tozier was certain of; one, he was absolutely insane and needed intensive psychological help, and two, he would do anything to save Eddie Kaspbrak like he couldn’t before.</p><p>He was going back. He was going to save Eddie, and this time, he was not leaving that house without him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Search</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There were no monsters here, not anymore. But maybe if Richie was lucky, he would find one.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for emetophobia/mentions of vomiting</p>
<p>Italicised sections indicate flashbacks, just to clarify!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After leaving Derry at the age of eighteen, fresh out of high school and bound for college, Richie never imagined he would return. Derry felt like the sewer of America, where people came to rot and waste away, and where anyone who dared veer from the path of normality was destined for a torturous fate. He packed his bags, waved goodbye to his friends, and set off to California. Within a month, he’d forgotten he’d ever had friends back home. Within two, he struggled to name where he was from at all. He had made a little life for himself already, and he had decided this was home, not wherever he had come from. Hence, he never made any plans to return.</p>
<p>This would change with a phone call he’d receive twenty years later.</p>
<p>This would change again when he was half mad and seeking out something that was never supposed to be found.</p>
<p>It was different this time, returning. Instead of fear gnawing at his bones and making him feel like he had to retch, there was a sense of hope that lit him up. He knew it was insane, hell it was worse than that, but if there was even a chance, he knew he had to take it. Eddie would have done it for him, probably. Maybe not, but Richie would not have blamed him; He was well aware that he was not a well liked or desirable person. He was rude, callous, and a bit too truthful when it came to more delicate matters. Nobody would have missed Richie had he rotted down in Derry’s disgusting sewer system, just another stink that would pass out of the grate in the summer heat before he fell apart and ceased to be. Eddie was different. Eddie had always been good, always looking out for them, always warning them to be safe. Eddie had always cared, so much that his heart could barely fit in his small body, and that made people love him. People missed Eddie, or at least, Richie did, and that was why it was so important for him to pursue this.</p>
<p>The words that ‘Eddie’ had spoken rang heavy in his head, making him woozy with it. He usually just heard his own internal monologue spill from apparition Eddie’s mouth, but this was new. He had never even thought of that thing since he was a child, and now he’d been reminded. It felt as though it hadn’t come from his own brain, but where else could it have come from? They’d killed the clown, he knew that for sure, so it couldn’t be another trick to lure him back. Though if it were the clown, he was sure that would be exactly what It wanted Richie to think. That didn’t even faze Richie though; no matter what, going to Derry now could never be as scary as returning to that empty apartment to spend another night missing the man he’d barely remembered to love when he had the chance. He could die there, but he could have died in New York too, no matter how this went, the outcome was the same in Richie’s eyes, and that was all that mattered to him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The rental car smelled of thick polish that made Richie’s eyes water, as his hands gripped the wheel and brought him down the road that led to his hometown. The smell was weirdly comforting, as if this would be a fresh start. A clean beginning. Maybe there was hope in his ludicrous plan, and maybe he was just a fool. Either way, the loud beat of the radio and the growls of the engine kept Richie’s mind ticking over, no time for a single thought to enter his head. Just the way he liked it. Don’t think, just do. Don’t stop, just push on. If he didn’t let the bad thoughts catch up with him, he could outrun them forever, and maybe then he’d be okay, maybe he could pretend that everything in his mind screamed about what an awful, terrible person he was, and how it was his fault that any of this had happened. He pressed down on the gas pedal, and the car sped along the tarmac, blurring past a sign that welcomed Richie home.</p>
<p>He slowed as he approached the town, looking out at the streets he knew so well. His eyes grazed over shop shutters, pulled down for the evening and shining in the light of streetlamps. It was all so new yet so familiar, and it made him want to vomit. How could home feel so far from home? How could it be that it felt like he was driving these streets for the first time, but he knew every nook and cranny of them? So many memories were hidden in the cracks of the pavement here, memories that had been out of Richie’s reach for so long. Digging through his pockets to find enough change to buy two red Rocket pops to make a Summer day a bit more bearable, the clicking of a playing card against the spokes of his bicycle wheels as he headed towards the theatre for the weekly creature feature, the flush of warmth on his cheeks as he watched his best friend offer him a hand after he’d tripped and split his lip on the curb. So much of Richie’s life had happened on the concrete here, yet he’d forgotten for so long that it stopped being a part of him. He hadn’t had time to think about these things when he’d returned before, too busy trying to stay alive and get back to his life in Los Angeles where he could pretend, he hadn’t seen Eddie Kaspbrak for the first time in almost 30 years and almost coughed up his heart in shock and anxiety. But now he had nothing but time to think about these things, his eyes glazing over the world before him as he recalled memories that had spent so long in his subconscious that they were practically browned with age. As he pulled the car in and his eyes fell on the dilapidated pharmacy not ten metres away, a world from before flashed back, so vivid that Richie could practically smell the sweat on his adolescent skin.</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s fucking freezing,” Eddie complained, rubbing his bare arms as they walked down the street, sun setting far off in the distance and a light breeze allowing the cool air of Autumn to sweep the streets.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I mean, seriously? How the fuck is it this cold? It was so fucking warm all day and now this? My mom is going to make me go to the ER again, I just know it. She’ll say I’ve caught pneumonia or something, say I’ve got a chill. I told you we should have left earlier, Rich.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie just hummed in response and didn’t even think as he slipped off his denim jacket and threw it at Eddie’s chest, “If you’re going to be such a cry-baby about it, take this. I’m baking, Eds. It’s fucking glorious today, you’re just a pussy.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie scowled over at his friend, but silently put on the jacket, which swallowed him up and had Richie snickering as a blush spread across his cheeks. Eddie would assume that blush was caused by Richie thinking he looked stupid. He would never learn how wrong he was. How Richie’s mind was going a million miles a minute, and how he’d never actually wear that jacket again, just bring the collar to his nose as if there was some hint of Eddie remaining on it long after it had been returned to him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thanks, Trashmouth,” Eddie reluctantly grumbled, giving Richie a playful shove as a smile pulled at his thin lips. Richie laughed and shoved his best friend back, his grin splitting his cheeks. Even these simple moments made Richie so happy, just being with Eddie. How they walked side by side, hands barely brushing because there was barely an inch between them at any given time, not that it ever occurred to them that most friends didn’t stand so very close together. How their knees were scraped and dirty beneath the hems of well-worn shorts from adventures in the Barrens, climbing trees and using sticks for swordfights, smoking their first cigarettes at the base of a tree and Richie laughing so hard he almost choked at how much Eddie coughed after barely inhaling. How every morning without fail, Richie met Eddie at the corner of their shared street, and they’d ride their bikes down to the arcade, or the theatre, or anywhere at all. They just wanted to be together. The Loser’s often commented about how even though they were all close, Richie and Eddie we joined at the hip, and where one could be seen, the other was likely to be close behind. There was no Richie without Eddie, and no Eddie without Richie. They were a pair, and that was all there was to it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Yeah yeah,” Richie smiled with a wink, making Eddie groan and roll his eyes despite his smile, “Just make sure your mom doesn’t get her paws on it. I don’t need to get chlamydia from her again.”</em>

</p><p>
  <em>“Dude! Gross!,” Eddie exclaimed, “And that isn’t even how that works. You’re so full of shit, Trashmouth. You’re going to be so hopeless when you get a girlfriend.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie just smiled sadly and said nothing. Sometimes saying nothing was the better option, because it meant he wouldn’t end up losing his best friend for being a complete and utter freak. </em>
</p>
<p>  <em>“Yeah”, he eventually murmured, and didn’t notice how Eddie looked at him with concern, “But at least I’m getting so much practice with your mom”.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>That broke the tension, and Eddie laughed as he slapped Richie’s arm, only for the other to start chasing him. Their laughter filled up the street, and it warmed Eddie more than the sun ever could have. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie would never admit that it always felt like a ticking clock until that laughter turned to screams because of what he was. What he was trying so hard not to be. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>So, he laughed along with Eddie, and pretended he was fine. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>The Townhouse was busier this time, almost all the rooms booked out. That was the problem with their being exactly three places to stay if you didn’t live in Derry, but it wasn’t exactly a tourist hotspot. If the residents barely stayed, why would anyone want to come and visit? Richie supposed he was one of many who had unfinished business in Derry, he couldn’t imagine anyone coming here for a fun getaway. This town had a dark underbelly, and everyone had their own secrets. It was common knowledge not to ask, and not to tell.</p>
<p>Richie didn’t stay long, just taking the time to put his bag down before he was out the door again. He was driving before he even realised he’d put his foot on the pedal, muscle memory kicking in as he made his way back down those twisting streets towards that rotting pile of wood at the end of Neibolt Street. Before that summer, Richie had often ridden his bike down that way with Eddie, and the pair of them would sit and watch the trains that sometimes passed, laughing themselves silly as they flipped off passengers and pulled stupid faces to make them gasp and grimace. Then they’d met It, and they’d never gone down Neibolt street again, even though it was the fastest way for Eddie to get home each day. They always took the long way, never once even looking in the direction of the house that sat at the end of the street. It felt safer to avoid it, pretend it didn’t exist. Before long, as each member of the Loser’s began to leave Derry, they forgot why it was they even avoided that street, but they all knew it was not to be travelled on at all costs. It was instinctive, you just didn’t go down Neibolt street.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’d broken that rule once before, when they’d all come back. Now Richie would break It again.</p>
<p>The car crept along the street slowly, houses slowly disappearing before Richie was halted outside the house that haunted his nightmares. Looking up at it, his heart fell into his stomach and fear seemed to swallow him up again. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back. Maybe he should have just called Bill, or Bev, someone, told them he needed help and let them help him. But he hadn’t, and now he was here. He’d decided to do this of his own accord. He had taken that step. Now he had to make his way to the finish line, no matter what was waiting there.</p>
<p>“Don’t be a fucking pussy,” Richie whispered to himself, eyes squeezed shut as he worked on gathering up the courage to undo his seatbelt and get out of the car. His bones felt like concrete, so hard to lift and force out, but he managed eventually, and then the house stood before him, no barrier between them. Just Richie and Neibolt. No Losers, no It, no bullies. Just Richie, and an abandoned house where teenagers went to sneak beers and homeless men found a place to sleep. It had never been a desirable place, but something about the way moonlight shone against the boarded up and broken windows made Richie yearn. There was something beautiful hiding in the ugliness of that building, something that Richie didn’t entirely understand.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Let’s kill this fucking clown.”</em>
</p>
<p>Walking in was easier than expected, except when one of the boards on the porch stairs snapped and Richie fell through it. It was fine, just more of a shock that had his heart racing, before he laughed it off and pulled his foot free. Just a rotten board, that was all. There were no monsters here, not anymore. But maybe if Richie was lucky, he would find one.</p>
<p>The smell of damp and mould filled the house, and it was somewhat comforting in it’s familiarity. Richie remembered the smell, how if you opened your mouth you could taste it, thick and warm on your tongue. He did it just to make sure he was real, that any of this was. The wave of nausea that followed ensured him that it was. New graffiti littered the walls, and Richie’s fingers trailed along the painted names and swears as he slowly made his way down the hall, repeating the words under his breath as a way to keep him grounded. The stairs creaked under his weight as he ascended them, the house groaning as it breathed around him, as if he were a virus invading the system. He was never supposed to be here, never supposed to return. Kids weren’t supposed to chase killer clowns on their bikes, they were supposed to read comics and drink soda and pretend they weren’t born broken. They were supposed to have first kisses that tasted like sugar and think having a zit was the biggest tragedy in the world. They weren’t supposed to taste blood on their tongues or barely react when they heard another body was found washed up by the river. Richie should never have been involved in any of this, but something had pushed him towards it. It was almost as if something had chosen him, had seen something special in him and thought he had some kind of ability to do some good. The thought was laughable, and yet still rang true in his mind. This had always felt destined to him, in the worst way imaginable. Even now, every step he took felt like he was following instructions on a map, so close to finding what he had been aching for.</p>
<p>Standing at the top of the stairs, something in the air was different. Richie could hear his heart pounding, slamming against his ribs as his feet moved without his command. He no longer felt alone. He could feel something, as if someone was lurking in the shadows, watching him as he moved. It could have been anyone, anything, waiting for him to make a wrong move before it leapt out and stole his life from his throat. He can feel it there, in how the hair on his arms is now standing to attention, how his spine has stiffened, and how his breathing has quickened to a soft, almost pant. He wants to run, wants to turn and run and never look back. He is filled with regret, wishing he had just reached out for help before he’d ended up so far down the rabbit hole. He could have just <em>called</em>, and none of this would of ever happened. He could have been back in his LA penthouse; scheduling interviews and shows with his manager and actually trying to live his life. Instead, he was searching for the remnants of a man long gone, having convinced himself that it even made sense to come back.</p>
<p>One more step, and his mind went blank. The smell. Thick and heavy and gross, hung in the air like a curtain. It wasn’t the mould or the damp, no there was something about this smell that made Richie think of dead birds on train tracks, and the time he’d found his sister’s cat tearing a rat into pieces. That smell was organic, that smell was <em>alive.</em> The fear that had curled up in Richie’s chest was still there, but now there was a new feeling alongside it. Hope. Hope that maybe he wouldn’t just stumble upon the corpse of one of the forgotten, that maybe, somehow, what he’d been searching for was actually behind the door in front of him. The knob was cold in his hand, pressed firmly against his palm, which burned the scar left from coke bottle glass so many years ago. He was turning it before he even knew what he was doing, and as the door swung on its hinges, a room Richie had hoped he would never see again was unveiled to him.</p>
<p>Nothing had changed. No graffiti, no broken glass or needles scattering the floor. The windows were boarded up still, mould having grown over the damp wood that blocked the light attempting to creep in. The room was wrapped in a cloak of noir, so dark that Richie feared another step would have him plummeting through a hidden passage, leading him to becoming another forgotten corpse that the house would simply swallow and hide away. But somehow, he knew exactly what was there, and he stepped forward without consideration.</p>
<p>The mattress was still there, the small bit of light that came from the hall allowed Richie to see that. Still stained and torn, though that was a bit harder to distinguish than the mattress itself. Richie would have expected silence so loud that it made him want to scream would have filled this room, but there was a sound, one that filled him with both horror and joy.</p>
<p>Rattled breathing escaped from the corner, where Richie could barely make out the form of a man. He fumbled in his pockets, his own breathing shaky as he managed to find his phone and switch on the flashlight, shining it at the form who instantly shied away, covering it’s face with deathly pale hands. Its skin was like something from a bad horror movie, paper white and so thin that Richie could see darkened veins as they pulsated beneath the surface. Dark, matted hair sat upon the thing’s head, and as it slowly craned its neck to look up, Richie was met with what could only be described as two black orbs where eyes should have been.</p>
<p>Richie should have been terrified, should have ran instantly from the monster hiding here. Any sane person would have. But Richie was mad by then, so mad that he didn’t even think as he rushed forward and fell to his knees in front of the creature, warm hands meeting cold skin as they turned those dark eyes back towards him. This couldn’t be real, and yet that ghastly smell and those horrific rattling breaths kept Richie rooted in reality as a thumb brushed the creature’s cheek, and a single word softly escaped his lips.</p>
<p>“Eddie?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Stay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Except, it didn’t; because in a rundown, old house on Neibolt street, lived a creature that resembled Eddie so closely, that he would one day be mistaken for him. A creature that somehow took the form of Eddie Kaspbrak and yet looked like a monster all at once, with pale skin and dark empty eyes. It was an imitation, a puppet, something that should have ceased to exist when It had returned to slumber.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>General CW for very mild body horror</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie Kaspbrak was born in 1978, to parents Sonia and Frank Kaspbrak who had wanted a child for several years. He was raised by his mother following his father’s passing and grew up with friends by his side that made him braver than he ever believed he could be. He felt fear in places he should have felt only love, and left Derry at the age of twenty-two, having finally gathered the courage to leave his mother behind.</p><p>Eddie left Derry, and forgot it even existed for a long time, until he was forced to come back.</p><p>For the guts of three decades, Derry forgot about Eddie.</p><p>Except, it didn’t; because in a rundown, old house on Neibolt street, lived a creature that resembled Eddie so closely, that he would one day be mistaken for him. A creature that somehow took the form of Eddie Kaspbrak and yet looked like a monster all at once, with pale skin and dark empty eyes. It was an imitation, a puppet, something that should have ceased to exist when It had returned to slumber.</p><p>It didn’t.</p><p>It called itself Eddie, as it knew no other name. Born only to strike fear into children that had crossed a line, Eddie of Neibolt Street was a foul little creature with no other purpose. When the Losers had initially sent It to sleep, all of It’s tricks had gone with It, all but Eddie. Something else was pulling strings, allowing Eddie to remain in the conscious world while his creator had faded. Eddie, who had no thoughts and was merely a shell to be manipulated in the Summer of 1989, began to think as Autumn approached. Eddie began to be.</p><p>His first memory of his own was the sound of tired footsteps. He’d sat up, startled like a feral animal when he’d heard it, and glued his empty eyes to the rotting wood that made up the door. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, barely remembered anything before this, and yet he knew so much. Knew that there was a boy he was supposed to hurt, a boy with wild hair and coke bottle lenses in thick frames. A boy with crooked teeth and bad jokes. A boy who should have been dead. Eddie knew all this, knew all the secrets the boy tucked away in the back of his mind; how he would go into his basement late at night and listen to his dad’s rock n’ roll records, how he would blow his allowance on soda and popcorn every week while the latest creature feature was playing, how he would spend just a second too long hugging his best friend and convinced himself he was going to poison him with the sickness in his mind.</p><p>He knew these things, had been created to drag these secrets out and torment the boy with them. To make the boy almost grateful when It would drag the soul out of him and let him rise with the others.</p><p>But there was no voice now. No commands or orders, no whispers that slid from his own mouth like thick slugs, wanting to terrify and disgust. It was just Eddie, alone in a damp room with a torn-up mattress and black bile on his chin. Alone, with no idea what to do or if he should do anything at all. He was never supposed to continue existing, and part of him knew that. He was never supposed to be conscious, to have his own thoughts or experience actual emotions. He’d fulfilled his purpose; he should have been gone. Should have crumbled to dust and been blown away by the cold wind that often slipped between the boards on what was once a window.</p><p>Eddie should have been nothing. But he was something, and now there was something else.</p><p>Footsteps.</p><p>Fear.</p><p>It filled him up, making his heart pound against his ribs as he scuttled backward until his spine met the wall with a loud crack. The footsteps stopped. He didn’t know why he was scared, why now he was the one running away, all he knew was that if he didn’t stay hidden, something terrible would happen and he would likely face the wrath of his creator.</p><p>So, Eddie did what Eddie did best. He hid.</p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak had spent his life in hiding, pretending to be someone he wasn’t all the way to his death. He’d lied to every person around him, building up walls to try and protect himself, only to relapse into the same situations that would always end up harming him.</p><p>Eddie in Neibolt didn’t have to build walls, he was already surrounded by them. He hid in a different way, but just like Eddie, he was never really seen. He spent years in that room, learning that rain and damp would gather on the windowsill, enough that he could keep himself hydrated, and that the rats that would seek solace inside the house were warm and juicy and tore apart easily between his teeth. He didn’t need much to survive, he might have looked human, but he was something else entirely. A puppet with no puppeteer; he had taken his own strings and began to control himself, began to raise the monster he was into something else, something he didn’t entirely understand.</p><p>He often would sit pressed up against the door of the room, ear sticking to damp wood as he listened to teenagers lose their wits and lost souls seek for warmth. He would sit there for hours, picking up titbits of conversations and sorting new words into his mind. He almost responded once, going to speak as he heard someone question if there was something dead in this house (he knew for a fact that there was), only for the words to get caught in his throat. He’d never had a conversation of his own, never had anyone to talk to. The words managed to crawl out, slow and crackly, as though his throat were made of sandpaper.</p><p>“Maybe it’s me.”</p><p>He’d never heard his own voice before. It was coarse, heavy and strained with the weight of fear that sat inside of him. It didn’t sound like the voices of the people he would listen to through the door. It was the voice of a monster, of something that never should have been. The thoughts rushed around in his once empty head, and Eddie realised that even though he was the one in hiding, maybe he was the one to be afraid of. He knew that’s why he’d been made, but so many years had passed that he’d thought that maybe he could have created his own identity, existed for something else.</p><p>“Stupid,” Eddie had croaked to himself, turning so his back pressed against the door and dirty fingers gripped at matted, dark hair. He was a monster. He’d always be a monster. He could never be anything else while all he did was hide in the dark, waiting for something to come and tell him what to do next. He’d lost direction, had never really had any to begin with, only a will to survive that he wasn’t even sure still resided within him.</p><p>He stopped responding to the conversations after that, even when he knew nobody would hear him.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody ever found Eddie, and for years he sat in that dark room, feeding off damp and squealing rats and some strange hope that something would change. He never saw himself, so he never really realised how he had changed, his body still mirroring that of the person he’d been created to imitate. He’d never had clothes, never needed them, so there was no external indication that he had gotten any larger except for how the rats seemed to get smaller, and how his feet hung off the end of the soiled mattress while he slept. He never considered that he had changed; he had never even seen himself entirely, so what would it have mattered to him anyway? His life hadn’t changed, except that he’d discovered patches of moss were far better at collecting liquid than windowsills were, and they’d become a firm favourite in terms of hydration for Eddie. The thick moss would sit on his tongue, and he’d spend hours slowly sucking the water out of it before he’d swallow the moss too, feeling it crawl down his throat and settle in his stomach. It was a treat, since moss usually only grew in the warmer months and Eddie would often have to wait weeks before a patch would grow large enough for him to enjoy. At one point, it occurred to him how strangely human the behaviour was, to spend so long waiting for something and feel absolute elation when he could have it. It made him think of Richie; he’d retained all the information It had filled him with, playing it over and over again in his mind. He felt he almost knew Richie himself, and his dreams often featured the other boy by his side, making jokes that left Eddie in tears. He saw himself as normal by Richie’s side, no longer wanting to scare him, if anything all he wanted was to know him.</p><p>Years of this focus on Richie had changed how Eddie felt about him, at least that’s how he saw it. He never considered that It had not only made him imitate his appearance, but also his thoughts. Richie seemed, incredible to Eddie. He was bold, and smart, and funny in ways Eddie could only dare to dream of. He was gross, just like him; with pictures flashing through Eddie’s mind of Richie putting worms in his glasses and splashing around in polluted water. Richie wouldn’t see Eddie as a monster, not now that he could think for himself. He’d tousle his hair and call him nicknames.</p><p>He’d teach him how to be human.</p><p>The thought made Eddie’s chest swell with warmth, and if he could have seen himself then, he would have noticed how his pale cheeks turned dark with the black blood that flowed through him.</p><p>These fantasies were something Eddie heavily focused on, imagining going on bike rides and reading comics under huge oak trees. Imagining scraping his knees on asphalt and Richie helping him up.</p><p>As the years passed, the fantasies changed. Eddie had no new knowledge of the world, knew it all through the memories and information of Richie he’d been given, but that didn’t mean his fantasies remained focused on childhood. He imagined Richie helping him up after he fell, and their hands lingering for a second longer than they should have. He imagined watching Richie laugh, and feeling warmth in his face. He imagined how Richie might touch his cheek, or his arm, lean in and do something that he was told never to do. He imagined how fear would turn to happiness, and how maybe there was something he wanted from this life after all, something that existed outside of this room.</p><p>But Eddie knew better, knew these were merely fantasies that would never be reality. Knew that Richie was terrified of him. He remembered the look in Richie’s eyes when he’d seen Eddie there, spitting black and laughing. He remembered the fear he’d found in him that day, and how it had made something in him feel powerful. Years on, the memory only served to make him feel sick; it had never been <em>him</em> that wanted to hurt Richie. He was a copy of someone who wouldn’t of dared do that, and now without a puppeteer, he was closer to that Eddie that he ever had been. He didn’t want to hurt Richie, Richie was important to him.</p><p>“I’m not him,” Eddie would murmur to himself, reminding his feeble mind that while he might have been Eddie’s reflection, he was never going to be the real Eddie. He would never have deep brown eyes and rosy cheeks, would never kiss his mother’s cheek and eat ice cream on the street. He was not born into that world, he was born into another, and while they may have seemed like the same to outsiders, Eddie knew he was an alien here. He would never be able to fill a role like that, would never be just ‘another guy’.</p><p>He was a monster. He knew it well, and the heavy silence that surrounded him would never let him forget it.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie spent nearly three decades in that room alone. Until one day, he didn’t.</p><p>One day the handle turned, and the door opened.</p><p>He’d scurried away, fear filling him up again just like it had all those years ago. He barely had a life in these walls, but at least it <em>was</em> a <em>life</em>. It was the only thing he had, and the memories he grasped onto kept him hoping that maybe one day there would be more to it than just blank walls and ridiculous fantasies.</p><p>Footsteps approached. He was shaking then, limbs pulled in close and tight against his torso. He hoped if he squeezed his body together tight enough, maybe he could slip through the cracks in the floor and run until his legs failed beneath him. Maybe he’d find his way back to It, find his way in the dark and ask why he was still here, finally understanding the purpose he served. He didn’t want to be discovered, didn’t want to be destroyed yet. There was so much he was never sure he’d ever accomplish, but still ached to try.</p><p>Then he heard it. A voice of a stranger that was somehow so familiar. A voice that was warm and wrapped around him like a hug. A voice that was filled with fear, confusion, with questions left unanswered.</p><p>A voice that said his name.</p><p>“Eddie,” the voice repeated, and warm fingers brushed against Eddie’s skin. Almost as if it burned, Eddie jerked away from the touch, his head snapping up so his eyes finally met those of the intruder. Eyes that were filled with tears behind coke bottle lenses. Eyes that Eddie had imagined every day since he’d awoken alone. Eyes Eddie knew.</p><p>“Eddie, I- is that you?”, the voice- no, <em>Richie,</em> asked, barely more than a whisper. He was scared, Eddie could sense it, he knew that feeling deep in his bones, had tasted it far too many times. But here he was, the boy Eddie felt he knew so well was crouched in front of him, fingertips extended but not touching. He wasn’t a boy anymore, no puppy-fat on his cheeks or gangly limbs. He was a man, with thick hair and bags beneath his eyes, stubble grazing his cheeks like the first new grass of spring. He was grown, and in that moment, Eddie realised he must have grown too. Richie didn’t look larger than him, not by any grand amount, and something in Eddie knew then that he no longer resembled the boy he was meant to. He resembled a man who he had not yet realised was dead.</p><p>“Eddie, c’mon, talk to me,” Richie pleaded, and this time when those fingers touched him, Eddie didn’t flinch. He allowed Richie’s warm hand to encircle his wrist, thumb brushing over the bone there. Eddie had never been touched before, but he knew then he wanted to be touched always. Wanted to feel the warmth of another body against his own cold one, feel it heat him up and surround him with feelings he supposed he’d never experience. That’s why he extended his own hand, until cold fingers met Richie’s cheek and slowly dragged along his stubble. A hot tear slid down to meet his fingertips. Eddie didn’t think as he brought the moisture to his grey tongue, not considering how horrifying the sight might be.</p><p>Richie didn’t seem to mind though, just laughed before he threw his arms around Eddie and buried his face against dusty, matted hair. Eddie just sat there, motionless for a long few seconds before he allowed his arms to mimic Richie’s and encircle his back. It felt….good, in a way he hadn’t expected, ven as he felt Richie’s hot sobs against his scalp as more tears began to spill.</p><p>“I thought I’d lost you, Eds. Fuck, I thought you were gone for good,” Richie babbled, and Eddie didn’t entirely understand. What had happened to the other Eddie? Had he disappeared, or simply left? Was Richie so desperate to find his old best friend that he was turning to a poor copy of him for comfort?</p><p>Eddie didn’t ask. He wouldn’t dare ask, not so long as he was wrapped up in strong arms. He didn’t want Richie to take that away from him, at least not yet. Part of Eddie wondered if this was just a dream, that somehow, he’d created an adult version of Richie in his mind and brought him here just so he could know what it felt like to be touched by someone other than himself. He had always been cynical since he’d awoken, but he was no fool. He knew his mind couldn’t make him feel warmth, couldn’t even imagine something of this nature. This was real. Richie was real.</p><p>Eddie felt like he could explode.</p><p>When Richie pulled back, and brought a large hand to Eddie’s cheek, he seemed to suddenly realise how cold this Eddie was. How his skin was stained with years of dirt, and how his eyes resembled an endless abyss. He stayed stil for a moment, before he scurried backward just like Eddie had when the door had begun to open.</p><p>“Fuck,” Richie whispered, shaking his head as he pushed to his feet, “Shit, no. No, this is insane. I’m fucking insane. I need to call Bev, or Bill, or just, I need to go.”</p><p>His words came out in a flurry, much like the words of the Richie Eddie knew in his mind. Unlike that Richie, this one was running away from him instead of towards.</p><p>That initial excitement had quickly ceased, had turned back into horror as Richie realised what Eddie was. He <em>wasn’t</em> Eddie. He was some sick and twisted version of the man he had loved, and he’d been a fool to try and pretend he was anything but that. Eddie was dead. Eddie was gone. This <em>thing</em> was just an imitation, a puppet, a rouse. Another way to hurt Richie.</p><p>Eddie stared up as Richie’s mind raced, his own dreadfully slow. All Eddie knew was that he could <em>not</em> let Richie leave. He couldn’t bear to have been presented with this opportunity and then to have it taken away from him so suddenly. He deserved this, he deserved to <em>live</em>, to see the world through his own eyes and not someone else’s.</p><p>So, for the first time in a long, long time, Eddie spoke.</p><p>“Stay.”</p><p>Richie stared down at the thing, the <em>Eddie</em>, listened to it’s voice which was broken and scratchy. He should have run, should have run and never looked back. He should have gone home to LA and found his manager and asked for him to get his career running again. He’d eventually move on, never come out but find some woman who would settle for no sex and access to his credit cards, and die knowing he’d lived a long and painful life, lying all the way to his grave.</p><p>That’s what Richie told himself he should have done as he crouched back down, looking back into those dark eyes and trying to find a trace of the man he loved in there.</p><p>“Stay,” Eddie repeated, and this time one hand shot out, gripping Richie’s arm so tightly that he swore he was going to die right there and then.</p><p>Richie knew he should run. Knew that this thing was not human, could never be the real Eddie. He was a representation of years of guilt, of fear that his touch would corrupt Eddie, make him filthy and sick just like him. He was the version of Eddie that he had created because he had spent nights with his hand wrapped around himself imaging all the things he wanted to do to Eddie. Richie knew that even though this Eddie looked like a monster, he wasn’t the real one in this room. It would always be Richie, Richie who made Eddie sick just like him, Richie who ruined Eddie by dragging him into depravity, Richie who would never be anything more than a deviant and a pervert and a man who would die alone.</p><p>This Eddie was a punishment. This Eddie was all he had left. This Eddie asked him to stay.</p><p>One word was all it took for Richie to seal his fate and find himself trying to make a man out of a shadow. One word, one simple word that could ruin what little he had left and drive him to the brink of insanity. One word that summed up all the hope he could muster.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered.</p><p>Taking a seat on the creaking floorboards, Richie looked into Eddie’s eyes and made him a promise he would never break.</p><p>He was going to stay.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Richie didn’t believe in God, but if he had, he still wouldn’t have prayed to him as he waited for death to envelop him. If he had believed, he might of stuck his middle finger to the sky and screamed at the omnipotent being to go fuck himself for all the shit his fucking book had put Richie through. Shit Richie had gone through despite being an avid atheist. Shit that people had put him through, not some man in the sky.</p><p>Maybe it was always man that was the monster.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for brief emetephobia trigger, and internalised homophobia.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Richie finally got back to the townhouse, he stood gripping the sink in the small ensuite bathroom, staring at his exhausted face in the mirror as he tried to ignore the smell of rot that lingered on his clothes.</p><p>When Eddie asked him to stay, his heart had broken slowly and all at once, all over again. He looked into those dark eyes, and they reminded him of Eddie in the cistern, of holding his heavy body in his arms and smelling the sewage around them as he begged some unforgiving god to save the man he’d forgotten he loved for so long. He was reminded of how Eddie had looked at him when they were kids, begging him for help when it was them against the world. It had always been Richie and Eddie, right from the start, right to the end.</p><p>Now it was starting again.</p><p>Eddie had asked him to stay, and how could Richie say no after having come so far to find him? It had never been an option. He’d come back to find Eddie, even if it wasn’t the <em>real</em> Eddie. Any Eddie was better than no Eddie, right? Better than endless nights alone searching for purpose at the bottom of a bottle, even if the Eddie he had now smelled of mould and had dirt living in the cracks of his skin.</p><p><em>“Like a fucking leper,” </em>Eddie would have said<em>, “God Rich, you’d catch something just looking at that thing.” </em></p><p>Richie laughed. Then he threw up in the bathroom sink.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Buying things for a zombie was difficult. For starters, did they get cold, or hot? Did they sleep? Was zombie even the right word for something like Eddie?</p><p>As Richie held a sweater in his hands (warm burgundy, Eddie has always looked good in red), these questions rolled through his mind. Maybe he was an idiot to be clothes shopping for that Eddie, but he craved seeing him as something more human, to maybe see that <em>thing</em> as the real, warm-blooded Eddie he’d grown up beside. Maybe if he cleaned Eddie up, took a comb to his hair and dressed him, then he’d become the Eddie that Richie was searching for, the Eddie that never let him have the last laugh and was always the first to jeer at his friends with a smile that made Richie’s heart feel like it was bursting. Maybe it was that simple, and Richie would be heading back to his LA penthouse in less than a week, finally knowing what home could feel like as his fingers intertwined with those of the man he’d loved for as long as he’d known how to.</p><p>This was what Richie kept telling himself as he walked back towards Neibolt with a backpack stuffed full of new clothes and toiletries sling across his shoulders, the words rattling around like stones between railroad tracks. Words dunked in sickly sweet, honeyed deceit, that Richie swallowed down until the sugar had him practically vibrating.</p><p>“You’re a fucking idiot, Tozier”, he grumbled to himself as the decrepit house loomed over him, just as terrifying as it had been when he was a kid. Even in the day, that house on the end of Neibolt Street felt smothered in darkness, living between the rotting wood panels and in the overgrown, unkempt surrounds. It was like something from a horror movie, something that the monsters lived in only to creep out at night and steal children from their beds. A house where only hurt could exist between its walls. There was still so much of him that ached to run far and fast and never turn back. To remember all the horrible moments in that house; being separated from Eddie, almost being killed (multiple times), seeing the clown holding Eddie’s small face in between clawed fingers, grabbing onto Bill as screams tore from his throat, hearing Eddie scream in pain. All those painful memories rushed through his head, but Eddie’s face was the one thing that had him terrified. He could have lost Eddie so many fucking times in that house, and now it seemed like this was the only place he might get him back. If Eddie had been here, he’d of told Richie to get the hell back to his motel and have a good wash to scrape all the bacteria off him from the air here. But Eddie, the <em>other </em>Eddie wasn’t here. Only something that Richie could convince himself was the same person. Behind that lurking, rotten door was the only piece of hope he’d had since Mike had called him back to Derry in the first place, and yet it was laced with fear so strong it made Richie lightheaded.</p><p> </p><p>Hope.</p><p>Fear.</p><p>Love?</p><p> </p><p>He walked inside with no further hesitation.</p><p> </p><p>The stairs creaked under his shoes, announcing his presence to the monster he’d found the night before. He wondered in Eddie has been sat there just waiting for him to return after Richie had reluctantly abandoned him, promising he’d come back as soon as he got some sleep, though it had not come to him as he had sat alone in his motel room, his mind racing and blank all at once. He wondered if Eddie had left, if this house was just as empty as his life was. And maybe that would be for the best, maybe he should have accepted that Eddie was gone and there was no amount of hope that could ever bring him back, that it was okay to die middle aged and alone chasing your dreams at the bottom of a bottle. Shaking the thought away, Richie stood on the dark landing, eyes glued to the door he’d pushed open not twenty-four hours previous and swallowed the hesitancy that was filling him up. No more fear. No more regret. There was only forward.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s like you’ve got a compass in your head, y’know. You always know the best ways to go, the best hide-outs, the best spots in this shithole town. You’re a walkin’ talkin’ navigator, Eddie my love.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie rolled his eyes, giving Richie a half-hearted shove as the sat on the hillside, the Summer sun slowly descending over the buildings ahead, down in the town.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Whatever, Trashmouth,” Eddie mumbled softly, not noticing how Richie’s entire body tensed as he leaned against his best friend. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie stayed quiet for a long while after that, willing himself to stare into the sky instead of looking down at the head of chestnut hair by his shoulder like he so desperately wanted to.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody could know. Eddie couldn’t know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d die with that love buried deep in his chest, and move forward.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As he walked forward, his large hands hung heavy by his sides, like great stones he was trying to pull along. Every part of him shook, haunted by memories of the house, of <em>Eddie</em>, it always came back to Eddie, and how he had made Richie feel as a greasy teenager, a forty-year-old failure, a silent mourner. Maybe Neibolt wasn’t the only thing that had a monster inside of it. Maybe Richie had never been a ghost, passing through his own life like he was never even there. Maybe he had always been a haunted house.</p><p> </p><p>“Eds?”, Richie asked softly as he pushed open the creaking door, eyes quickly meeting those dark eyes that reminded Richie of the deep quarry waters he’d spent countless summers splashing in.</p><p>Eddie was sat there, in the exact same place Richie had left him the night before, only now he didn’t look so fearful. Instead, his thin lips twitched into something akin to a smile, one hand lifting and reaching over to his one and only visitor.</p><p>“Richie.”</p><p> </p><p>How many times could a heart break? Richie was sure his must not have even resembled a heart anymore, patched up time and time again with tape made of lies he told himself. This was another roll of tape he’d already started using.</p><p>“Hey, Eds,” he spoke softly, a smile pulling at his lips as he slowly approached the other… man? Yes, man, that made the situation far less creepy than Richie knew it really was, “I got you a couple things, courtesy of being the world’s worst comedian. No autographs, please.”</p><p>Eddie didn’t react, just stared as Richie made his little joke. Other Eddie would have rolled his eyes and told Richie to shut up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Beep Beep.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sitting beside Eddie, Richie slowly unpacked the bag he’d had slung across his shoulders, placing the carefully folded items of clothing in front of Eddie.</p><p>“I got you some jumpers, a few shirts, some pants. But I didn’t know what size you were so I hope drawstring is okay, so we can adjust ‘em. And if you don’t like them, I can get you something else, but if you want to get out of this place, you can’t go walking around naked, Eds.”</p><p>Eddie silently looked between Richie and the clothes presented to him, as though analysing everything. With careful hands, he reached out and touched one of the sweaters in front of him, before lifting it between his chewed up fingers. His eyes raked over toe soft material, before flicking back over to Richie.</p><p>“Help?”, he asked, slowly lowering the jumper to his lap as Richie, wide eyed behind coke-bottle lenses, nodded his head.</p><p>“Sure thing, Eds. C’mere,” the larger man spoke softly, as if Eddie was a wild animal he was trying not to frighten. In a way, there was more than a kernel of truth to that metaphor, though Richie ignored this thought as it entered his head.</p><p>Moving closer and shifting to his knees, Richie gently took the jumper and helped Eddie get his head through the neck, trying not to think about how he’d felt his heart pound as his fingers met dusty hair and cold skin. His eyes met Eddie’s again, as he helped slide arms through sleeves, and Richie found himself mesmerised by this creature before him. So pale and ghastly and yet so <em>Eddie</em>. As close to Eddie as he could find anymore, and he’d take it. He’d take whatever he could get, a sad desperate man searching for the only seed of love he’d ever truly allowed himself to have, before burying it beneath years of repression, disgust, and self-loathing.</p><p>Eddie seemed to sense the change, one cold hand raising near automatically to curl around Richie’s wrist, fingers pressing along the underside so he could feel how fast the other’s heart was beating. Richie was nervous, eyes wide and face flushed. Was it,</p><p>“Fear?”</p><p>The word came out so softly, yet Eddie’s rough voice sent Richie skyrocketing back, recalling how similar the clown had sounded before disappearing after their first true clash with It. It was so close, almost the same, and for a second Richie wondered if he was caring for a puppet, another thing left to torture him until he was nothing but a wreck. If this thing wasn’t Eddie, had no connection to him, and was just a doll painted to look like him, a puppet with strings that would tie around Richie’s throat until his final breath escaped his lungs.</p><p>And for a moment, it <em>was</em> fear he felt. The fear of watching his friends, all just kids, fighting off the thing that had been stealing the other kids in town from their beds and their games. Watching the bonds he’d forged, so strong and yet so fragile, almost broken by a monster that lived beneath their homes, where they had slept soundly for all their summers before this. Feeling scared and brave and hopeless and powerful all at once, as they fought back and stood their ground, the protectors of a small town in Maine from an ancient creature that had preyed on it’s inhabitants for centuries.</p><p>But it also <em>wasn’t</em> fear, because as he looked at Eddie, Richie knew that even if this was all some cruel joke, that the clown was still alive and continuing to toy with him, that this was better than a life without Eddie at all.</p><p>“No. Not fear. It’s uh, care. Y’know, like caring for your friends. I care about you.”</p><p> </p><p>Richie swallowed down the bile in his throat. He couldn’t even say ‘love’ to a fucking monster.</p><p> </p><p>The explanation, however, made Eddie smile wide, his yellowed teeth bared ti the world in a grin so ugly it made Richie’s whole being want to explode. Instead, Richie just grinned his own ugly smile back, nose wrinkled up and eyes squinted at the edges. He was…happy. Happier than he’d been in a long time, really. Sat in the cold with a monster and smiling to the high heavens. It was bliss. It was nirvana. Richie could have stayed in that moment forever, if his mind could ever slow for just a moment. But it couldn’t, so he didn’t.</p><p>“Okay, pants next. I won’t look, scouts honour,” Richie chuckled as he unfolded the jogger bottoms he’d purchased, helping shimmy them up Eddie’s bony legs as he looked away (as promised).</p><p>“There, you look like a regular ol’ Joe to me, siree,” Richie drawled in a thick southern accent, which made Eddie smile again, as his pale hands moved over the fabric that now sat on his skin. He looked mystified, in the same way a child might’ve the first time they saw a giraffe, or the first time Richie had done cocaine and felt like his dick was going to explode, “Just need a bit of a scrub and then you’ll be ready to bust out into society in no time.”</p><p>Eddie was just smiling, his dark eyes locking once again with Richie’s before he moved forward suddenly, and deceptively strong arms wrapped around the other man. Richie felt panic rise up in his chest. This was it, this had to be it, right? He’d started trusting this thing that looked like Eddie, and now it was going to tear him limb from limb, watch the blood seep out of the wounds it made, and leave him as a feast for the rats that scurried in the walls.</p><p>Richie didn’t believe in God, but if he had, he still wouldn’t have prayed to him as he waited for death to envelop him. If he had believed, he might of stuck his middle finger to the sky and screamed at the omnipotent being to go fuck himself for all the shit his fucking book had put Richie through. Shit Richie had gone through despite being an avid atheist. Shit that <em>people</em> had put him through, not some man in the sky.</p><p>Maybe it was always man that was the monster.</p><p>So he shut his eyes. In silence, he told his friends that he loved him. He told his parents he was sorry. He told his ex-girlfriends not to mourn him. He-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“..told me to meet you at the clubhouse. What gives? Are you okay?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie swallowed as he held the phone to his ear, sweating more than was normal for ant teenage boy as he heard Eddies angry yet concerned voice echo down the line.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Richie? Come on, man! My mom got so pissed about me leaving prom early. She called the chaperones, I didn’t even know moms could do that. And now I’m grounded for who knows how long because I went looking for you and you didn’t even show. I hope you’re happy, dude, you know I-“</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The line went silent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Richie?,” Eddie suddenly lost all the anger that he had been holding in his voice, “What’s going on?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie squeezed his eyes shut, back pressed against the cool kitchen wall though separated by the thin fabric of his gaudy blue suit jacket. His lips parted, words dancing on his tongue that he’d been waiting years to say;</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hate that you and Erica Stewart danced together, and she laughed at your jokes and I wanted to tell her to get her fucking hands off you because you’re my best friend not hers and only I get to make you laugh. I hate that you wore that stupid burgundy suit that makes your eyes pop and I hate that we got in the photobooth and you have dimples in the picture because I made you laugh. I hate that you told me you don’t even like Erica and you just danced with her to get her to leave you alone. I hate that it still made me so angry and that I had to go take a piss just to get away. I hate how you stole my cigarettes and made me teach you how to smoke while we stood outside. I hate how amazing you looked tonight. I hate how I’m so stuck on you and Eddie fuck, I think I’m gay and I think I love you because I don’t think normal boys get this angry about seeing their best friend laugh, and normal boys don’t stare at their best friend’s mouth when he smokes his first cigarette and normal boys don’t ask you to meet them in the woods late at night to make secret confessions. I think I love you, Eddie. I think I’ve always loved you, and I’m scared I always will.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Richie? Come on, you’ve never been quiet for this long in your entire life. Say something, would ya?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie swallowed, “Eds, I-“</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shit it’s my mom, I-“.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The line went dead. So did Richie.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Richie thought death would feel empty, an endless void where he was left wandering among his own mind for eternity. Considering the mistakes, the what-ifs, the dreams he’d never had a chance nor the drive to accomplish. He expected death to be both the greatest form of torture and the only form of relief he would ever truly experience.</p><p>So, when he didn’t feel his bones crushing underneath his skin, or the air being pushed out of him, it was safe to say that Richie was fairly confused. Arms were wrapped around him, gentle but firm, and a dusty head laid against his chest, heavy and cold. It took Richie a few seconds too long to realise that Eddie wasn’t trying to kill him, instead, he was being hugged.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie was hugging him.</p><p> </p><p>The last time Richie had been hugged was the day he’d lost Eddie. Down in the quarry, surrounded by his best friends who held him as he cried, all of them knowing exactly how broken his heart was despite him having never breathed a word of how he’d truly felt. Being held by them had felt like he was being burned, their touch born of love so fiery against his skin. They didn’t know how disgusting he was, how he was a monster hiding in human skin, how he had somehow tricked them all into loving him. How they had saved him and left Eddie to die.</p><p>Richie didn’t realise he was crying until Eddie looked up at him, having felt hot tears touch his scalp as they slid through his hair. Silently, the monster reached up and wiped away Richie’s tears, before simply returning to hugging him. He didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to ask. This Eddie knew it all, knew exactly what Richie was, and understood how it felt to be so along for so long, to go unseen until you were finally visible.</p><p>To suddenly be known.</p><p> </p><p>Richie’s arms slowly wrapped around Eddie, and before long his face was pressed into the mass of dusty hair upon Eddie’s head, not even caring as it made him sneeze as he squeezed the other closer, just wanting to hold him there and never let go, lest he lose him all over again.</p><p>“You’re not a monster,” Richie whispered, soft enough that only Eddie would have been able to hear it as they kneeled there together, at home in arms they’d never known yet always craved. Suddenly having found themselves through the eyes of someone they had never been able to forget, despite all of the years between their reconcile.</p><p>Eddie’s cold hand pressed against Richie’s shoulder blades, feeling more human than he ever had before as he was held close, and if he had the ability to cry, he supposed he would have, having never known touch like this before. Eddie had lived so many years as a monster, as the thing that lurked in the dark that teenagers used to scare their friends.</p><p> </p><p>Richie had changed all that in an instant. He didn’t know who he was if not a monster, if not some vile thing made to strike fear.</p><p>He knew one thing though, and he spoke it softly into the room, the walls swallowing up the words and holding onto them so Richie would never forget them.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not a monster, either.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you!</p><p>If you enjoyed any of that, or have any notes, toss me an oul comment! I'm kinda nervous to share this fic but I hope of you made it to here you at least enjoyed it. Take care, stay safe, and I'll hopefully see you again soon!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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